


The Punishment

by acerbitas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Belts, Brainwashing, Emotional Abuse, Forced Nudity, Keeping people in dungeons, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Other, Physical Abuse, Public Humiliation, Rods, Spanking, Spanking with an audience, Torture, Twisted Puppy Play, Whips, everything sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay decides to entertain his political guests by spanking Theon in front of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Punishment

Theon had been in the Dreadfort for two fortnights, give or take a few nights. He tracked the time by etching scratches with his fingernails into the rough wood of the rack to which he was hung. The splinters had pricked his skin more often than he cared to count, but far worse was the agony that made his shoulder feel like they were about to rip away from the rest of his body. One of Ramsay’s henchmen had taken a whip to him the night before, and rivulets of dried black blood now cut their way across his chest and back.

He was writhing in his bonds by the time Ramsay arrived. The creaky opening of the rusted door filled him with a combination of terror and hope--he had not had water or food in three days, and perhaps Ramsay would find it fit to bring him some.

But alas, this was not the case.

“We have visitors.”

The words were smooth, cold, deliberate--they sounded like a steel blade, or like the way Ramsay sounded when he was about to use one.

Theon said nothing, opting to watch in silence instead to find out what the Bastard of Bolton had up his sleeve.

“Very _important_ visitors, _Reek_. Lords from the North, and a few men of the Iron Isles too. They have come to convene with me regarding very important political matters.”

A jolt of hope ignited within his bones. There were many good men ruling the North, honorable men who did not condone torture. They would call for his head, most likely, but it would spare him this. And the Isles…

“How do you feel about that, _Reek_?”

Unease made the room feel colder as Theon realized that something was not right. Good news for Theon would mean bad news for Ramsay, but Ramsay held a grin like that of a little boy who knew he held the winning hand in a tavern poker match.

“That’s not my name, _bastard_.” It took all of Theon’s strength to muster a weak drop of saliva to spit at the other man.

The blow caught him on the side of his face, over an already-cut eye, but he forced the scream of pain back down into his throat. Theon was a Kraken, a Son of the Deep, Heir to the Iron Isles. He could still maintain his composure, his dignity, instead of stooping to tears like a child. Except when the flaying knife came out…

Theon shoved the thought from his mind.

But, for now, the only use of Ramsay’s knife was to cut loose the ropes that held Theon’s wrists and ankles to the X-shaped rack.

Theon groaned in relief as he slumped into Ramsay’s arms; the sharp jolt of pain in his shoulder sockets was worth it to be let down.  An urge to bite Ramsay’s throat chewed the back of his brain.  He was so close to the bastard, so close to the smell of blood that wasn’t his own and the scent of musk and sex.

Flopping out of Ramsay’s grasp, Theon lay on the floor, too weak to rise but determined to not let Ramsay touch him any more than he could help it.

“Why, you look more like a fish than a kraken.”  Ramsay’s eyes sparkled in the torchlight.

If it was the last thing Theon did alive, he was going to chop off Ramsay’s neck.  Then there would be no more tricks, no more knives, just a dead bastard for the crows to eat.

But Theon heard it.  He heard the sound of Ramsay’s pack being opened, and like a crippled spider he turned towards the sound.  Ramsay withdrew an apple and began to crunch, feigning oblivion.

Theon watched, stomach wailing in angry protest.

“Oh, do you want some?”

Theon locked eyes with the scum, but he wasn’t sure if his desperation or hatred was stronger.

“You have to say please,” said Ramsay indignantly.  “S'not polite.”

Theon rolled over on his back, a groan rising from him, but he refused to say it.

“You’re going to have to be on your best behavior today, which I must say is abominable.  These are important people.”

“Or what?”  Theon felt the kisses of Ramsay’s knifes whisper over his body, reminding him of the answer.

“Or I’m going to have to punish you.”

Theon spat in Ramsay’s general direction, but his throat was so dry nothing came of it.  His heart beat at the thought of more knives; he didn’t know...he didn’t know what would happen if he never escaped.  How he’d endure it.  He didn’t want to think about it.

For some reason, his insubordination made Ramsay’s smile get wider.  “This is going to be an interesting time.”

Dread crept up Theon’s spine.  Something bad was going to happen at this meeting, and it was going to happen to him.  At least, that was what Ramsay thought, and what Ramsay thought was all-consuming in Theon’s darkened world.

He kept his own will curled up tight in his chest, so tight he got knots in his stomach and acid dribbled from his mouth.  He wouldn’t let go of it.   _I will,_ he thought, a tiny whisper, _I will if I never leave here._ Theon forced the thought into a dusty corner: he was better than that.

“Well, I know you’ve had a rough night, but it’s time to get you presentable.  We’re running late.”

“But-” _I can barely move._

“But _what,_ Reek?”

“Nothing,” Theon hissed bitterly.  He pushed himself up onto his haunches, breathing heavily.

Pain laced down his neck: Ramsay had grabbed a fistful of hair and was holding him up by it.  Theon heard himself squeal like a child, and felt tears prick at his eyes.   _No,_ he admonished himself, even as his chest heaved.

“What?”

“I can move, I was confused...just…”   _Please let me down._  Theon’s chest heaved again, and bits of hair floated to the floor.

“When you are at this banquet, you are not a guest.”

Theon’s scalp was agony, and he grabbed at his ragged clothing to distract himself from the pain.

“With these people, you get to be my servant.  I am giving you a kindness.”

A whimper, rising, and tears, falling.  Theon clutched his shirt some more, but all Ramsay did was jerk him up again, hard.   _How is he...so strong?_  “Pl….”

“Yes, Reek?”

Theon hated responding to that name, and one day, he’d kill Ramsay for it. “Please let me down.”   _It’s because I’ve grown weak._

Ramsay dropped him to the floor.  “Good boy,” he said, exaggerating like he was speaking to a hound in training.  “See how much easier it is to just be good?”

Theon imagined spitting on Ramsay; he imagined pummeling him to death on the stone floor.

“Now, back to this arrangement.  You will do what I say.  Pour wine.  Get what I command.   _Simple_ things that I think even you can handle.”

Grunting, Theon pushed himself up onto shaky feet, putting his hand out to the wall as the world spun around him.

“But if you are not obedient, I will punish you.  I will punish you like a serving boy.”

Theon didn’t care.  He was suddenly passed caring about Ramsay, and his punishments, and his japes.  He knew he was going to get punished, no matter what he did.  He knew Ramsay was going to hurt him.  Even though he was trying not to care, a whimper rose up from the back of his throat.

Ramsay was up close to him, his breath on his neck, his big hands running over Theon’s cheekbones like they were lovers.  “Someday you’ll be grateful I trained you instead of throwing you away.”

Bile churned in Theon’s stomach, and he closed his eyes as the world spun.  “Trained?”

“Yes, Reek.”  Ramsay patted him on the shoulder.  “Trained to be mine.”

Ramsay’s breath stunk of blood, bread, and day’s old pork. The world became mottled and pale, and then Theon passed out.

 

The first thing Theon felt was soft wetness on his face.  His eyes fluttered open and he tried to bolt, but all he managed was a grunt and a whimper.  He was slumped against a wall of the dungeon.  Blinking through filmy vision, he saw them.  Four women were swabbing his face and cleaning him.

At first, Theon was convinced it was a mirage.  They were beautiful girls, young, with breasts nearly falling from their dresses like fruit.  One of them giggled at him flirtatiously, which was strange, because he knew he was starting to look gaunt, freakish.

The women helped him undress and get into the tub, ignoring his growing erection.  Theon was flushed with shame, because he smelled foul, disgusting.  He was also a prisoner, and none of them would be touching him if they hadn’t been commanded.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Theon willed his tears and arousal away; he was almost pathetic enough to jerk himself off in front of them.  Almost.  He tried to wash himself, tried to help them so they’d stop rubbing their hands all over him.  So they’d stop making his heart squeeze so hard it might burst.

Blessedly he was soon clean, and he was given an outfit that must have been for servants.  He never wanted to be dirty again.  Then they left him with a small plate of bread, cheese, and water.  The giggly one waved at him on the way out, but it felt like she’d slapped him.

Within a minute, he downed all the food, not caring if it was a test, not caring if he was supposed to ask permission.  The bread tasted like heaven.  The tightness in his chest, the longing, was still there when Ramsay returned.

The prisoner had to force himself not to cringe.

“It’s time,” Ramsay told him, and grinned so wide he looked like a traveling salesman.

Renewed by the rest and the food, Theon was able to follow Ramsay out of the dungeons and into a maze that led to the great hall.  He limped and shuffled, impeded by the foot that had had a screw jammed into it.   _I’m a cripple,_ he thought bitterly, _and a fool.  Ramsay’s fool._

Despite the water Theon was still dizzy, and as much as he tried to memorize his path, he lost it like a cracked jug loses water.  He was not going to escape.  Not today.

“Stand in the corner,” Ramsay told him, sidling up next to him and putting his hand on his prisoner’s chest.  “Get refills on our wine when we need it.  I don’t want any lip from you, Reek.  This is a test.  Maybe if you’re a _good boy_ you can stay off the cross tonight.”  He patted him and turned to the guests.

Theon hung his head, clutching at his new, unfamiliar garments and praying he wouldn’t be recognized.  He didn’t want any lords to see him this way...unless...unless they’d stop it.  Hope leapt in his chest, clawing through the bile and darkness.  It would be worth it to speak up, even if Ramsay hurt him later.  It would be worth it, if there was even a chance this would be over.

He kept his head slumped down while Ramsay stood behind him. He could almost feel the steel tip of his blade already, scraping its way down his spine. But when Ramsay left the table for something, Theon’s heart began to pound in his chest, filling him with bolts of hope.

It was time.  He felt like he was about to vomit.

He scanned the faces before him. There were about fifteen men in all, a mix of Northern lords and rough Ironborn leaders, though none of the Ironborn were any he recognized. His heart slumped a little in his chest. He had been hoping for a sure defender, somebody like his uncle, but of course, Ramsay wouldn’t have brought him here. _Maybe I shouldn’t,_ he thought, almost not recognizing himself as he did so.   _Maybe...maybe I should wait for another time._  But he didn’t know what other time he might have, and he cursed himself for stalling.

Swallowing his fear down, he approached the strongest Ironborn man. Ironborn were ruthless when challenged, and  this man could put a dagger through Ramsay’s skull if he found out what had been inflicted upon his fellow countrymen--his rightful king and leader.

He took a deep breath. “My Lord.” His voice wavered, but he managed to hold his princely dignity with a tone he hadn’t used since the day he became the Prince of Winterfell.  But it all felt wrong on his tongue, like he’d stolen it from somebody else.

The man turned. His eyes raked over Theon’s ragged servants’ clothes, his limbs that had gone thin from hunger, his bruised and pale face.

“‘The fuck do you want, mutt? Got in a fight with some other kitchen cur? Fill my goblet, boy, it’s empty.”

Theon wanted to cringe, but he didn’t.  Something must have snuck out through, though, some hint of fear, because the Ironborn leader made a disgusted face, and the two lords sitting near him chuckled.

Heat rose to Theon’s cheeks, and his limbs shook, but he did not back down.

“I...I am no ‘kitchen cur,’ I am Theon Greyjoy, last living son of Balon Greyjoy, rightful heir to the Seastone Chair and Pyke.” He wasn’t sure why, but the words felt like a lie.  Theon felt his stomach churn.  But he couldn’t stop, not now.  “I demand safe passage back home to my father. In exchange I shall give you gold, women, land...whatever you want.”

The last words broke and wavered, and more men--four or five this time--broke into raucous laughter.

“You’re Lord of the Iron Isles, all right,” one of them japed, “And I fucked the Queen last night!”

The laughter continued, putting a twist of worry in Theon’s gut.   _They don’t believe me,_ he thought, nearly dropping the wine goblet.  Some of the wine tipped over the edge, and dropped onto the floor.   _He’ll hurt me,_ he thought, _he’ll hurt me!_  The spilled wine looked like blood.

The whole room echoed with laughter, and it took Theon a moment to realize why.  He was trembling and sniffling like a little boy.   _I_ am _a cur, a wretched serving girl. Pathetic._

It was in that moment when Ramsay re-entered the room, and Theon saw his eyes.  Theon bowed his head, quivering down to every last wretched bone.  He’ll hurt me, Theon thought.  When the hurt was even an hour away, he could be brave, but when it was right there, he stopped being able to control his tremors.

“Oh, did you spill some wine, Reek?”  Ramsay asked, eyes nearly glowing with anticipation.  “You should probably be a good boy and clean it up.”

“Yes, m’lord.” _If...if nobody says anything…_

“Oh, his name is Reek now?” the Ironborn leader guffawed.  “Here he was claiming to be Theon Greyjoy, heir to this, that, and a whole load of shit.”

“Was he?” Ramsay’s voice was playful, mockingly curious.  “Did he ask to leave?”

“Offered us a bunch of gold dragons to do it, too.  Bet the boy has four coppers hidden underneath his mattress.”

Ramsay turned to his quaking servant, his eyes as vicious as a starving bloodhound.  “Reek, is this true? Did you ask to leave?”

_If I lie, it will all go worse._  “Yes, yes m’lord.  Yes, I’m sorry.  I…”  Sorry meant nothing to Ramsay.  Theon bit down on his tongue.   _He’ll drag me back to the dungeon, and this time...this time…._ He didn’t want to think about this time.

Shaking his head, Ramsay gave the men a little bow.  “I apologize.  This servant is new and insolent.”  Ramsay marched towards Theon, grabbing him by the wrist.  “You're a filthy little traitor who just can't stop, can you?”  His fingernails dug into Theon’s flesh, his teeth were bared, and his eyes--his eyes seemed genuinely furious.

_No._ “I’m sorry, I--”   _No!  No!_

Ramsay cut him off.  “I think it’s time you learned how to respect your betters, and what happens to bad servants.”

“I’m n-not a servant!” Theon hissed, past thinking, past logic.  He wanted out, and he wanted away, from his horrible place and this horrible man.  “I am Theon Greyjoy, and I will not b--”

Ramsay gave him look of fake pity.  “Reek, that’s what you were _before_ you came here.   _Now_ you are Reek, because my father generously let you live.  You still forget your name and place.  I’m afraid you’ve been very naughty.”  Ramsay turned to the lords, some of whom were still snickering, and others who eyed Theon suspiciously.  “I apologize for his behavior, and the disruption it has caused to your night.  I can straighten it out here, if you like.  A bit of entertainment; the Dreadfort is good at this kind.”

Theon felt his legs turn to jelly as the lords cheered and guffawed.

“Come to the front of the room.” Ramsay patted a sturdy wooden table pushed against the wall, in full view of everyone. “Right here.”  He sounded almost sweet.

Theon swallowed. A pit of fear gripped him like a hawk, but there wasn’t much he could do. He knew now that none of the Northern or Ironborn men had any love for him, and if he disobeyed, Ramsay would drag him back down to the dungeons and he would...he would…

“I won’t say it again, Reek.”

Theon seethed inside as he took rigid steps up to the table. He stood there silently, lips pursed tightly together, brows furrowed, staring at the ground.

“Good, little dog. See?” Ramsay turned to address his audience, who now watched with rapt attention. “Even a traitor can have some uses, if you know how to break it in properly.”

Theon was shaking, and the world in front of him was black with rage and fear.  A little voice inside whispered, so soft even Theon didn’t hear: _at least I’ll have a use._

Ramsay turned back to Theon. His snakelike grin returned.

“Take down your britches, Reek.”

Theon blinked. He must have misheard. It was so preposterous, so out of place, that it must have been the hunger and fear causing Theon delirium.

But the men in attendance howled with laughter, bringing reality down onto Theon like crashing waves.   _I’m...not a child.  Not anymore._  But it didn’t matter.

This _was_ real.  Theon instantly felt smaller, felt himself shrink until he was so small he was nearly back at Pyke.  Weak little boys who told clever jokes didn’t do so well at Pyke, just like traitors didn’t do so well anywhere.  He guessed it didn’t matter if you were a man, not if you were Reek.

“Still likes to be a bit ornery, this one,” said Ramsay to the other men. “Likes to ignore me and cop an attitude, but the little bitch has so much left to learn. One thing he’ll learn right now, if he doesn’t obey, is that my flaying knife works wonders on cocks and balls. If he disobeys me tonight, he’ll never know the feel of a woman’s cunt again.”

Theon felt vomit in his mouth, and swallowed it back down. Ramsay’s voice had dropped to a dangerous low tone he’d not yet heard.  Ramsay had followed up on every one of his threats in the past. If Theon didn’t obey, that threat would come true, too.

Theon took a breath. _It’s just this one evening,_ he told himself. _Think of the agony you are saving yourself from. Just this one moment, then it’s all over.  I've been thrashed before._   But it wasn’t over yet, and he was trembling all over.  He was sure Ramsay wouldn't be gentle.

He swallowed as he slowly unlaced his breeches, fingers shaking so hard that it took him twice as long as usual. The tunic he wore hung low enough past his waist to at least cover him somewhat. Theon stood still and let the pants fall down toward his knees, trying not to show any signs of his growing humiliation and fear. _I should never have said anything,_ he thought, _I shouldn’t have disobeyed._  He cringed; Ramsay was teaching him, he was, and Theon didn’t think he could stop him.

The guffaws of laughter had risen to a dull roar, punctured by japes and comments. Theon tried to block them out, just like he tried to block _himself_ out.   _Someday, am I going to surrender?_

“I say we give this bitch a spanking!”  Ramsay was having way too much fun, and Theon’s stomach was upset.

The dining hall roared with drunken hoots and applause. Theon felt like sliding through the floor, into anywhere, into any place he could hide, but there was nowhere for him to go.  Suddenly it was hard to breathe, and just for an instant, his father was there instead of Ramsay.  But now Theon wished for his father.  He wished for anyone, or anything, but this.

Ramsay turned back to him, ice in his voice. “Now, bend over the table.”

Theon did as he was told. He tried not to think too much, this time. Tried to just block out the world around him.

Ramsay yanked his tunic up to his shoulders, fully exposing him to the whole hall. Theon shut his eyes, embracing the blackness. He tried to pretend he was in a Winterfell tavern, playing some kinky game with Ros, but he knew those days were gone forever.

“Reek?” Ramsay asked, sternly.

At first Theon didn’t answer, the ball of pain and rage inside him hurt too much for him to speak.  But he felt something hard tapping on his bare skin.  “Yes, m’lord?”

“Push your ass up so I can reach it better.”

Theon curled his fists into balls, but he did as Ramsay commanded.  Somebody at the table was laughing so hard they couldn’t stop.  Theon cursed them all.

“Why do you need to be spanked?”

Theon could barely believe that Ramsay was going over offenses like he was a child.  He heard at least one new man laughing.  “Because…” He gritted his teeth.  Ramsay’s endless obsession with “Reek” gave him a good answer.  “I’m Reek...not Theon.  I should not have been speaking to a lord.  Let...let alone like that.”

“And?”  More tapping on his exposed flesh.

"I was trying to run away."  It was the hardest one to say; that was the offense that had truly angered his captor.

"Yes, _and?_ "

Theon's heart plummeted, because for a moment, he forgot the answer.  “...I spilled the wine.”

“Very good.  Maybe I can train you yet.  Hold good and still, or I’ll just go harder.  This is to _teach_ you, Reek.  You’re lucky I’m patient.”  Ramsay was trying hard to sound like a lecturer, but his breathing was excited in a way that made Theon feel sick.

The first lash struck him with what felt like a long, hardened object; a sword sheath, perhaps, or a rod. It sent waves of pain crashing through him, but he managed to maintain his dignity without a motion or sound.

The second blow came, then the third, then the fourth, faster and harder each time. More blows hit him, then more. Theon still stayed quiet. Drool crept from his mouth, and his eyes watered. He bit down on his own arm to block out the pain.  Ramsay had taught him about pain in the dungeons, including how to drift away from it, and escape.

Then there was a pause, and it was ominous.

The next lash cut into him, this time with what felt like a whip. A humiliating moan broke its way out of Theon’s throat. Ramsay moved closer to him, and Theon could hear him breathing faster, could smell his faint musky scent of arousal. Theon cringed. Whenever Ramsay got excited, it made him want to just prolong Theon’s misery, and the game could go on for hours.  

_I...don’t think I can go on that long_ , he realized, cursing himself.  Again, too weak to hear, a voice said: _if you would have obeyed…_

“Does it hurt?” Ramsay asked.  He was not too original, especially when aroused.

Theon gritted his teeth.  “Yes...m’lord.”  His voice was soapy and tremulous, and before he could stop himself, he whispered: “I’m sorry.  I…”

The blows stopped, and everything was silent.

Now Theon was heedless, desperate for the pain and humiliation to end.  “I’m sorry, m’lord.  I’m Reek.”

Ramsay chuckled.  “Yes, yes, we know.  It seems you’re the only one who keeps on forgetting.”  Then he swung the whip again, and Theon jumped.

“I’m _your_ Reek,” Theon pleaded, and despised himself for it.

“Yes, you are.”  Ramsay paused before the next lash.  “And that means I can do what I want, including discipline you as much as you deserve.”

Theon panted with despair and shame, shame for trying to stop it. _Coward_ , he told himself, _it’s just a thrashing, that’s all, you coward.  Weak..._

The whip struck down on the same bruised flesh again and again, turning red skin to bruises.  Theon began to squirm, wiggling but managing to stay bent over.  All his efforts did was make the men laugh louder.  His bruises turned into open, bleeding welts. A particularly hard blow made Theon scream. He clamped his teeth around his arm to muffle the sound, but the whole hall went quiet and the blows stopped.

Theon swallowed and breathed a slow, timid breath. There was the taste of salt in his mouth, and he let out a gasp, then another.  Then, a horrible whimpering sound came out of him, and he was too small and scared to stop it.  Could it be over? He dared not look back, but hoped against all hope that maybe this could be over, and he could block it away and never think of it again.

But Ramsay began to snicker, and in time, so did the rest of the hall. Theon knew that that snicker only meant one thing: things were about to get worse. Theon felt very small then, like a weak little boy, and the vulnerability made him more ashamed than he had ever been. _If I’d just obeyed,_ he thought, _maybe..._  If he’d just obeyed, what?  He cursed himself.  Ramsay would always hurt him.

“Trying to muffle your screams, are you, cur?” purred Ramsay. “Do you wish to stifle our show? I think you need a better use for your hands.”

Theon tried to make sense of Ramsay’s words, but his head was too foggy. He felt like he was dreaming, or drugged, but the sharp pain of his wounds and degradation cut him too deeply to be anything but real.

“Reach around and hold yourself open, Reek.”

Theon’s arms froze to the table like ice.

“You heard me. Open yourself up for us. Show us where Robb Stark fucked you before my father put a sword through his heart.”

Theon leaned his head down on the table and screamed.  It was a raw, miserable scream, filled with grief and humiliation.

“Do you want to be a good dog with his balls, or a bad dog without them?”

Sniffling, Theon reached down and touched his burning, bleeding flesh.  At first he pulled away, but then he pulled himself open.  And that was when he started to sob.

Theon heard Ramsay taking off his belt, and squirmed as the leather came loose.

What if he uses me?  What if he lets _them_ use me?  Theon’s hair was wet with sweat.   _I’d rather be a good dog,_ he thought, half delirious now.  He never wanted anything more at the moment than to have been a “good dog” when Ramsay had been gone, except for Ramsay to be dead.

But when the next lashes came down upon him, now from Ramsay’s belt, all Theon wished for was to be dead. The beatings struck him between his legs this time: across his entrance, and across his manhood.

Before long he was sobbing openly, gasping for air in ragged, strained wails. The men had grown quieter in the background; Theon did not know whether it was due to pity, enjoyment or some sick combination of both.

Blood dripped down his legs, and tears and snot dripped down his face. Ramsay stopped swinging the belt seconds before Theon believed he would have passed out. He hung his head, crying, unsure what to do next, wondering if there was any way he could make himself simply die or dissolve into the night.

“Now.  Tell me what we learned today…Reek.”

_That’s not my name,_ he wanted to shout, but by now he knew better.  Throughout the spanking he’d shifted, until now he was leaning as much as possible against the table top, because his legs were weakened and he was dizzy.

“I belong here, with you.  I’m...your Reek.”  He hated even saying it, but he was still bent over the table, ready for Ramsay’s blows.

“Such a slow boy,” Ramsay admonished, sounding almost playful.  “I wish I didn’t have to punish you so much, but you insist on being a bad dog.”  The bastard ran his belt over Theon’s wounds, making him whimper

“I...I won’t be disobedient. My lord.” He stuttered as he talked, but he was too broken to care.

“You damn well better not be. But what do untrained mutt dogs call their keepers?”

Theon froze. The threat of even more humiliation--if such a thing were possible--crept down his spine and made him cringe. “My...m’lord...Lord Bolton, Warden of the North…” he spoke slowly, trying to search for the right word in hopes that he would land upon the one Ramsay wanted.

Theon could hear the mockery in Ramsay’s tone as he responded.  “It’s as if you want me to keep going.”

_“Please.”_  It was more a whine than a word.

Ramsay sighed, and then slammed his belt onto Theon’s thighs.  “The…” He spoke slowly, like he was mocking a simpleton. “Kennel…?  The kennel what?  Who keeps curs like you?”

“Master,” Theon gasped to the entire room; the lords had been silent for awhile.

“Who...am...I?”

“Master,” Theon babbled.  “You’re my master.  I’m your Reek.”   _Let it end, I’ll say anything to just make it end._  He couldn’t stop crying.

“Are dogs grateful to their masters, when they learn a new lesson?”

“....Yes.”  Theon wanted to be dead, and if he wasn’t dead, he wanted to be back in his cell, where at least his torture was private and nobody saw him beg for mercy.  “Thank you...master.”

“Do you want off the table?”

_Why...why can’t he just_ stop it _already?_  Theon heaved, panting hysterically. “Yes, _please,_ master.”

“It looks like it will be rather hard to walk, hmm?”  Ramsay chuckled, and he had an almost sweet, almost kind tone in his voice.  “It’s a good thing dogs crawl.  We’re done.  Down, boy, that’s where you belong.”

At first, Theon had thought Ramsay was going to keep going, just keep going until Theon was dead.  Theon slumped to the ground, dry heaving, and the pain made light flash in front of his eyes.  He was perversely grateful for the kindness, and clung to it, an orphan savoring each scrap of old food.

“You can pull up your britches now, Reek.”

Theon obeyed quickly, yanking up his pants despite the gouging pain the fabric caused against his wounds.  He kept his eyes on the floor; he was shaking so hard his vision was blurry.   _I want to die,_ he thought, _I want to be in my dungeon cell, alone.  I want to die._

“Good dog.  Do you want to find out what good dogs get?”

The battered prisoner did feel like a dog, a dog that wanted to slink off and lick its wounds.  Theon nearly answered dumbly; after it hurt too much he usually blindly agreed with Ramsay, no matter what he said.  But after his public beating he was desperate to do more than mimic: he wanted to please.  What if Ramsay yanked down his britches all over again?.  What if Ramsay did make good on his other threats?  “...If...you want...your Reek...to find out.  Your Reek...just wants to please.” _I want to die,_ he thought. _Let me die._

“Aww,” Ramsay murmured, like he was really cooing at a puppy.  He turned to the crowd, who in Theon’s absence had been served food and wine by other servers.

Theon was desperately grateful that some of them seemed to have stopped paying attention.

“So what do you think, men?  How was the entertainment?  You can feed him your scraps, give him some wine, or you can kick him away.”

The room was silent; two or three of the men had sly smiles on their faces, but at least one Ironborn was frowning, unsure.  Theon was as grateful to him as he would have been if the man had stopped Ramsay’s blows.

“Go on,” Ramsay urged, patting Theon’s head.  “I’m proud.  My Reek wants to please.”

Theon cringed, it was another blow, another blow cloaked in kindness.  But he clutched that bit of kindness to his chest, too.  He wanted more; he wanted all the kindness he could get.

Slowly, painfully, Theon crawled to the frowning Ironborn and peered at him imploringly.  The man lifted his glass of wine, still half full, and gestured for Theon to come closer.  Theon came, even though he was afraid it was a trick.  The man tilted the glass gently to Theon’s parched lips, and let him drink until it was gone.  Then, he lifted his entire plate of meat off the table, and laid it in front of Theon.

“Eat,” he told him.  “I’m done with it.”

The kindness of pity.

Theon couldn’t stop tears from running down his face; he wished he had a cloak to cover himself.  His heart was dashing, so frantic that it was uneven.  He gave Ramsay a pleading look, silently looking at the plate and then up at Ramsay.   _Please…_

Ramsay stepped beside him, leaning down to whisper in his pet’s ear.

Theon shied away, as timid as a mouse.

“How do dogs eat?”

“...with their mouths, master.”

“My little cur is learning.  I want you at my feet when you’re done.”

As Ramsay returned to his seat, Theon cowered lower on the floor, licking the grease off his lips.   _I want to die,_ he thought.   _I want to kill him.  I want to rip out his guts._

Theon took another bite of meat, peering at his lord and then looking at the ground again.  For an instant, he wondered if Ramsay could see into his mind and read his thoughts.  His heart jolted at the thought; his stomach was so sick he was afraid he’d vomit up all the meat he’d eaten.  Obediently, loyally, he crawled towards Ramsay and sat at his feet.  His punished flesh burned so much he thought he'd cry yet again.  Ramsay petted him on his head, and Theon struggled not to flinch.   _I’ll kill him,_ he repeated, like a mantra, _I’ll kill him.  Or I’ll die._

Sweet and smothering, another thought came to him.   It offered another kind of death, a softer death.  A death easily in his reach.   _He could be kinder,_ Theon thought, _if I was really Reek, and he was really my master._

****  
  
  
  
  
  


  

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm acerbitas and it's my birthday today and my first act is to post spanking porn I don't know what my life is anymore.


End file.
